


mirrors reflecting mirrors

by heinrichfrei



Category: Dí Rénjié | Detective Dee and the Mystery of the Phantom Flame (2010)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-22
Updated: 2010-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 23:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heinrichfrei/pseuds/heinrichfrei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I only need three things to subordinate it: an iron whip, an iron hammer, and a sharp dagger. I will whip it with the iron whip. If it does not submit, I will hammer its head with the iron hammer. If it still does not submit, I will cut its throat with the dagger.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	mirrors reflecting mirrors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



_A/N: Thank you to[endymionic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/endymionic/pseuds/endymionic), the most amazing beta in history, for doing this in the shortest of notices, ever._

 

You wield the brush better than the needle. Girls of your age weave peonies of gold and crimson onto silks of snow white, setting off butterflies to play hide-and-seek among the blossoms. You sit alone, quietly tracing words onto sheets of yellowing paper, the blackness of the ink jumping out boldly as they sing of thoughts from yesteryear; words of the sagely, the powerful, and the sinners .

Your words are those of an inquisitive child who does not know her bearings in society, refusing to yield to common expectations. You barely get along with the children in your cohort. There are times when they try to include you in their games, but when you find it too easy to skilfully manipulate them into a fight against each other, you give up, bored. You prefer the companionship of thoughts and ideas.

One day, your father stands by the door, watching you as you quietly work your way through a book. Shaking his head, he comments ruefully to your mother as she weeps unfathomable tears.

“She will serve His Majesty. She is to follow me back to the palace.”

*

You are thirteen when you are admitted into the palace as the Emperor's consort – beautiful enough to fetch a high-enough honour for your father, and intelligent enough to be placed amongst the company of the better concubines of the fifth-rank. Your room is a simple affair; a bed, a dressing table, a closet, a simple tea-table in the middle, and two stools.

You do not spend much time serving the Emperor; there are many others favoured by him, and you favour the company of the scrolls and tomes available in the Imperial Library. Nothing delights you more than placing your fingertips on the pulse of the latest happenings in the kingdom, as your lips curl up into a quiet smile, knowing you can do better than these ministers who are bemoaning their tasks as they down shots of rice wine in the garden. Nothing makes you happier than befriending some of these administrators, subtly offering them advice on current affairs and to see them taking it up after a moment's contemplation. Nothing gives you that feeling of satisfaction when you prove them right, as they stare in wonderment at the results.

There was a fine afternoon when you were called to accompany His Highness to visit the Royal Stables. Putting on your best dress, you trailed beside him like a lotus blossom; divine, controlled. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, staring at an ebony horse standing by itself in the last stall.

“This, my beautiful one, is the Lion Stallion. Look at him, so proud, so strong, so large. None of my men can mount him. A shame, really. This horse is indeed the finest, yet none can break him.”

You stared at the Lion, as it returned your hard gaze and harrumphed. Its sleek black body glistened in the afternoon sunlight, like polished onyx. Slowly, a smile spread across your face, and you turned to the Emperor, bowing slightly.

“May I try to tame the Lion Stallion, Your Highness?”

“You, my beautiful one?” The Emperor chuckled in amusement. “How are you going to do it? Even my strongest men have failed. I'd like to see you try.” His smile was patient, as if talking to a child. You steeled yourself, recognising that expression as the patronising look given to you by others who often thought you were nothing but a precocious child in need of being put back into her rightful place.

You looked away, and stared at the Lion Stallion. “I only need three things to subordinate it: an iron whip, an iron hammer, and a sharp dagger. I will whip it with the iron whip. If it does not submit, I will hammer its head with the iron hammer. If it still does not submit, I will cut its throat with the dagger.” Turning back to him, you flashed a quick smile. “May I, Your Highness?”

He startled at your answer. Hesitantly, he composed a smile and clapped. “You, Wu Mei, you are not only beautiful, but brave. Have it. Have the Lion Stallion if you can make it yours. But meanwhile, walk me back to my chambers. I have some papers to look through.”

Three weeks later, the Lion Stallion is yours. And that horse is not the first, nor the last you conquer.

*

Di Renjie sees right through you and your ruthless ascension to power. He is a man of justness, of rightness, and his brand of ethics does not coincide with yours. But he is among the few who dare to confront you when he thinks you have overstepped your boundaries, though he does it in a way that you find it difficult to counter; he debates effortlessly with facts and evidence laid bare before your eyes. Soon, he becomes the most interesting person in your life.

You try to turn on your charm to seduce him, but he cleverly parries it away. Over a game of chess, he quietly comments with a slight upturn of his lips,

“Your Highness, only birds of a feather flock together. How can a commoner dare to fly beside a phoenix?”

You knock his cannon out from the chess game in your next move, fuming quietly inside.

*

Two years later, you have Di Renjie exiled. He is far from a kindred soul, feather or no feather.

*

There is a fabled beauty in the Shangguan household – the one you just ruined a few days ago by having those who had almost gotten you deposed by the Emperor Gaozhong executed. The head of the family and his son were among those beheaded. You step into their courtyard, the servants unable to stop you and your men. Surveying the surroundings, you notice scattered sheets of paper on the floor, and a child by a small wooden table at the corner of the garden, writing. You pick one of the papers up and read it to yourself. Her mother rushes forth, but is held back by your guardsmen.

You approach the fabled poet-prodigy, Shangguan Jing'er.

She is beautiful, and her poems more so. But she is not the most beautiful, physically – the way you were never the most beautiful among Emperor Taizhong's consorts – her jaw is too angular, her features too sharp, her face too masculine from certain angles. You pause by her little table and her writing hand stops in mid-air, noting your presence.

“Child, continue your writing.”

She nods in acquiescence, words flowing like rivers spilling across the delta, fanning out into an ocean of revelation.

“Stop, child. Look at me.”

She looks up at you, slightly wary, mostly curious. A stray strand of her hair dances in the wind. You catch that between your fingers, and she inhales, fear colouring her features. Gently you tuck it behind her ear.

“Tie up your hair, child.”

She picks up a strip of cloth used to bundle her scrolls, and fashions a haphazard topknot using it, her eyes steadfastly gazing at the ground. You tilt her face up to meet yours. This child, you muse, what a beautiful one she’ll be. You look at Lady Zheng standing in a corner, meekly watching the interchange between yourself and her only daughter.

“Jing'er will serve me. She is to follow me back to the palace.”

*

Jing'er becomes your treasure in the absence of anything else that comprehends you, but you keep your distance from her. She keeps her hair up, her chin equally high in defiance. She grows up to be the sharpest of blade in your command, taking no-nonsense from her men and women. She trains under the best, and learns under the wisest. She walks in your shadow and guards your life with hers.

In your chamber, alone with her, she is as vulnerable as the child she was.

Her gaze is often pleading as she patiently awaits you to invite her into your inner sanctuary, kneeling on the floor, wearing nothing but with her hair down and her lips painted red. She stays there, unmoving. Years of military practice make it natural but never any easier as her body quivers in anticipation. You sit on your bed, lazily fanning yourself with a peacock-feathered fan as your voice commands her pleasure from afar, watching her movements from behind those beaded curtains.

“Your right hand, on your breast.” Acquiescence.

“Touch it for me.” Acquiescence. A stifled moan.

“Your fingers. Wet them with your saliva.” Acquiescence. Glistening.

“Your fingers. Down. Slide one in.” Acquiescence. Sharp intake of breath.

“Pull it out. In.” Acquiescence. Silence.

“Out. In. Out. In.” Acquiescence. Eyes shut.

“Faster.” Acquiescence. Her pose falters, knees buckling.

“Faster. Harder.” Acquiescence. An escaped moan.

“Stop.” Acquiescence. Eyes snapping open, another escaped moan, a horrified look, pleading.

You smile, watching her writhe in your refusal to her release, her eyes desperately begging you to allow her to continue. You feel powerful, in control. Slowly, almost painstakingly, you slide off the mattress, your robes trailing along with you as you walk towards her, smiling predatorily. You stand behind her, and embrace her from the back, your fingers kneading her breasts and coming in contact with her arousal. You press your thumb against her throbbing clit, and she buckles, leaning her weight against you.

You push three fingers into her, feeling her muscles tense and her desire to ride them almost immediately if it was not for her trained obedience where you are concerned. You start pistoning your fingers in and out of her, and she bucks against it in an erratic rhythm. So close, so beautiful.

When she finds her release at your permission, you feel like there is nothing you cannot take on.

*

You will ascend the throne in no time. The towering Buddha statue is nearing completion, and things are going smoothly for the coronation ceremony. Until the deaths begin occurring around the city.

You look at the evidence laid before you. You are sure that at some point in your life, you will have to bring back the banished, and it seems like the time has come. You call for Di Renjie to return.

Jing'er seems astonished by your decision. You look at her, and note a second of hurt. She volunteers to watch him, to make sure he is no longer the rebel he was. You close your eyes, thinking of what you have always taught her; the dispensability of a world where achieving one's goal takes predominance. You are not sure how dispensable she is anymore to you, but you do not want her destroyed by Di Renjie, nor him by her.

But if she chooses to taste this dish before it is served to you, then so be it.

“Go, child.”

*

Di Renjie is still the man that loved you for your sharp intelligence and hated you for your ruthlessness. You, on the other hand, still love him for being true to what he thinks you are. He makes no effort to conceal that as he trades verbal barbs with you, barely veiled, and you laugh. You have to laugh. Di Renjie understands you better than anyone else in the world, and eight years feel like they have never happened. You all still live in dangerous times.

Jing'er is quiet that very night when she enters your chamber. You stroke her hair and place a kiss on her forehead, and invite her in without a word.

*

When she tries her hardest to make sure that you are not assassinated, she is often successful. She anticipates all the attempts, like a finely-honed blade, swinging in the direction of the threat, thwarting it effortlessly. She is silk, much like the cords she wields as her signature weapon; strength and grace when it comes to anything to do with your life. Everything that harms will be deflected, even when it approaches from a distance.

When she swears her allegiance to you, her own private confession on a daily basis, promising she will stake her life to protect yours, you often try to dismiss it in your head. There will be others under her command, they can take her place, they are disposable. They should be the ones standing in front of a flying spear or a well-aimed sword, parryingwith their weapon, or if fortune is not smiling then, mercy be on them, let their flesh be the shield.

When she returns to you, heavily injured, you know your screams for the Imperial Physician will not prove to be fruitful. It is then that you begin to realise the gravity of her promises.

When she dies in your arms and asks if you have ever loved anyone, and if it was ever worth it, your answer is the most honest you have given to anyone in your life.

*

“Why did you bother saving me?”

“I see you shed your feathers over her death. However, the phoenix will rise again.”

*

Di Renjie knows you better than anyone else in this universe. When he makes you promise by the mace given by the late Emperor, it is not a mere promise you make, but a promise you will keep; because he knows that, one fine day, even the new becomes old, and gives way to ashes, to darkness, to night. You may try your hardest to rule fairly, justly, and to live out the ideals you have painstakingly written down on paper as a child, but without those whom you have once loved around to protect you, it is only a matter of time before it all fades out.

You watch him leave for the Phantom Market the next day, heavily cloaked. Looking at the horizon, you turn away, your steps brisk as you walk back to the ruined palace.


End file.
